The Three-Word Tin Collection
by TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: "There are lists upon lists of three-word sentences I want to speak to you, but I can't so hoard them the way a collector amasses figurines or an antiquarian precious rarities." What happens when Sherlock has to store the things he wants to say to John while deconstructing Moriarty's web, but the Mind palace proves an inadequate place to store them?


**Author's**** note:****This story is dedicated to Isayan, for the kind words which served as great incentive! Thank you :)**

**Furthermore, this is written from Sherlock's POV, which I find extremely challenging to write, as it doesn't allow for much sentimentality if it is to stay in-character, so I hope this turned out decent.**

**A disclaimer, as always: I don't have curly hair or an awesome Scottish accent, so I guess I'm not Steven Moffat. I can't pull off a waist-coat and an umbrella while playing the British Government, so that means I am not Mark Gatiss. And since I am still living and breathing, I guess that rules out Sir Arthur Connan Doyle. Ergo, I don't own Sherlock! **

**Enjoy your reading! :)**

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I collect them, conserve them in tins and nylon wrappers to save them from the rain, the wind and the cold; the loneliness, the bitterness and the fear. There are lists upon lists of three-word sentences I want to speak to you, but I can't so hoard them the way a collector amasses figurines or an antiquarian precious rarities.  
Since I am prevented from delivering them directly to you, I must dispose of them somehow, before they become too much of a distraction. I tried deleting them, but they seem rather persistent, returning constantly and at the most inopprotune of times. The Mind palace simply won't do, they are too loud, bashing against walls of their room, surging relentlessly into my thoughts, successfully demolishing the mental barriers I carefully designed to keep them out. This has, on several occasions, proven itself an unwelcomed distraction, one that I cannot afford to indulge in at the moment. Not with the intricacy of Moriarty's web demanding my full attention. Yet, the sentences continue to assault my mind and deleting them just doesn't seem to work, seeing as they keep on resurrecting themselves, which means I am forced to provide an alternative solution.

Thus, I made a storage container to host them, one that I will eventually present you with. I keep them in a chest inside my chest. A trunk full of words tucked safely away in my thorax, guarded by a ribcage you palpated for bruises and breaks too many times to count. I constructed it just as I did my Mind palace, although in a less extravagant fashion. After all, lavishness doesn't become you.

Admittedly, a chest was not my first choice of storage. For a moment I entertained the idea of a freezer with formaldehyde-filled jars. It was the most obvious choice – practical, with the highest preservation ability, controlled conditions. However, after a more careful consideration I came to the conclusion you might find it somewhat distasteful, (although I do not think you would be surprised by such a choice).  
A filling cabinet seemed appropriate enough, a homage to our detective work. Yet, it sounded so dull, the image itself already evoking the smell of dust on cold metal and the sight of rows upon rows of boring manila envelopes in tidy rows.  
A medical bag or a first-aid case provided inadequate space and sorting possibilities.

A chest, then. Old wood – oak, ash or chestnut – not excessively processed, with all the natural grain still showing. A warm colour of the wood, nothing pretentious – ruling out mahogany. No excessive embellishments, no silly, loopy carvings and elaborate reliefs. Just some simple design along the lid and possibly on the sides. Something seemingly understated, yet with an intimate meaning – a cross, (bold, equal arms, Red cross type, not religious, indicating aid), the Rod of Asclepius (healing above destruction, a doctor first, a soldier second), a three-word engraving along the base of the lid (Latin, military - _In Arduis Fidelis;_ faithful in adversity). Altruism, skill, loyalty. Doctor, soldier, friend.

Inside, no compartments. Instead, the sentences are stored in separate tins – tea tins. Those more delicate ones are further protected by wrappers – nylon, like the Tesco shopping bags.

Tin 1 (Twinning's Earl Grey Tea): _It is dangerous. I am disadvantaged. You compromise me. You leaven me. Conductor of light._

Tin 2 (English Breakfast Tea): _I want tea. Breathing is boring! I'm not hungry. People will talk. I need cigarettes! Everyone is dull. You are not. _

Tin 3 (Ahmad Darjeeling Tea), one nylon wrapper:_ I am sorry. You are missed. I miss you. I am alone. It is complicated. I am tired... _

Tin 4 (Cardamom Tea), 2 nylon wrappers: _Take my hand! Friends protect people. Forget the note. Forget the fall. Come if convenient. Come despite everything. _

I keep the chest positioned where that much-speculated-about heart of mine is supposed to be.

Some sentences end in a full stop, others with an exclamation mark. Sometimes it is the one and the same sentence that ends in both, or neither, or doesn't end but is left open and lingering, depending on whether in that particular moment it is a confession (_I love you_), a plea (_I love you_), a proclamation (_I love you!_), a revelation (_I love you..._) or simply a fact, as irrefutable as mortality (_I love you._). Sometimes it is all of the above.  
There are sentence I keep on deleting, continuously, time after time, because they wouldn't fit in a tin or the chest or any place I currently have at my disposal – they don't fit me. I must delete them every single time, no exceptions, because keeping them anywhere on my person is too compromising, too dangerous. Those sentences would melt the tins and wrappers, burn the chest and then burn me. Dangerous, illogical, impractical - (_I love you_) – _delete_.

There are no promises, no vows in the collection, because promises can be broken and vows fail to be upheld. No, there are only statements and facts and confirmed hypotheses, ones that are beyond absolute, as obvious and transparent as droplets on microscope slides and as indisputable as the Copernican model of a Sun-centred solar system which you persisted was so incredibly basic that you found it inconceivable that I have deleted it.

Furthermore, there are no guesses in the chest. Certainly, there are aspects of your current state that I am interested in, yet not familiar with, but I do not make guesses about those aspects. I never guess, because with complete data guesses are redundant, unnecessary, an inaccurate and inadequate substitute for a soundly formed conclusion, only used by those who fail to catalogue all the evidence presented or simply do not possess the mental faculties required to formulate a conclusive scenario that would fit all the facts. I never guess, not even when the data is insufficient, because the solution to_ that_ problem isn't speculation but further investigation.  
I never guess, not even now, not even when the data is so exceedingly lacking and the possibility of collecting any is virtually inexistent (I say virtually, because my unfortunate and definitely involuntary ties to the British government can provide some information, however partial and unsatisfying it may be). No guesses, never guesses.  
In the absence of what is needed for a deduction worthy of my reputation, I am left with questions. Unanswered ones, questions pertaining to matters I never thought I would be concerned with. Some I can predict answers to or at least ascertain the probability of an answer. Those are the questions about which some data can be gained through my umbrella-wielding archenemy-sibling.

Tin 5 (Ceylon Tea): _Are you alright? How is Lestarde? And Mrs. Hudson? How is Molly? And my violin? Still left untouched? Any new girlfriends? Any interesting ones? Are you alone? Are you limping? Do you sleep? Having nightmares again? How is surgery? Dull as always? Are you home? Still in 221B?_

Tin 6 (stale tea, useless; don't drink, bitter): _How is Anderson? Still unbelievably obtuse? And Sergeant Donovan? Still his mistress? On her knees? "Scrubbing his floors"? Gloating over this? Enjoying their "success"?_

Others, questions which I cannot predict answers to, questions related to _sentiment_ – they scare me more than anything else.

Tin 7 (English No. 1 Tea), multiple nylon wrappers: _Are you lonely?_ _Do you remember? Will you understand? Can we resume? Bit not good? (Love me back?) - delete_

With every inventory the collection is expanded and the chest sits more heavily in its designated cavity. It presses against my diaphragm – inability to ventilate lungs properly, suffocating sensation; it crowds the walls of my aorta – partial obstruction resulting in insufficient blood flow to the cardio-respiratory system, trouble breathing. Prognosis – eventual asphyxiation imminent.  
Breathing really is such an inconvenient compulsion, so easily impaired, and not nearly as pleasurable as thinking. And yet, it is an inexorable prerequisite of thinking, seeing as the brain cannot function properly without a constant and ample supply of oxygen.

One day in the foreseeable future, I will have to discard of this makeshift storage unit in order to restore proper gas exchange in this confining transport of a body. I will unload it all at your feet, give you the key to the chest and let you take your pick of which sentences you wish to keep and which to ignore, discard and never mention again. A whole assortment of teas, an array constructed specifically for your choosing. When the kettle has boiled, which will you select? How many cups will you prepare? Tea for two?

Pick your tin, lift the lid. Add boiling water. Leave to brew for three minutes. Add milk and sugar, according to taste. Drink, until there is only the dreg of moist leaves at the bottom of the cup. A fragrant ink spelling your answer against pale, glazed clay.

I have several theories about possible outcomes. It is logical that your reactions and answers will depend heavily, if not entirely, upon the basis on which you choose to formulate them. There are several options. One, you could choose to react using logic (I would much prefer this, it would be the most time-efficient and the least chaotic one), in which case you would see the necessity of my actions and we could resume our partnership without a lot of complications – _least probably option._ Alternatively, you could base your answers on sentiment. In that case, there are further two possible options – the chosen sentiment being somehow positive (relief, joy, etc.) or distinctly negative (anger, resentment) – _least reasonable, but most probable option._ Of course, there is the option that you will not choose to open the chest at all, but throw the key back at me and leave me standing with the burdening sentences. I prefer not to entertain that thought too much.

Reaction possibilities: a pleasant cup of tea or scalding, boiling liquid being splashed onto me.

The kettle has boiled. Which tin will you choose? Pour water, leave to brew for three minutes. Add milk and sugar according to taste. Yours – milk, no sugar – is the relevant preference, the cup that will almost certainly be made. Mine – two sugars, splash of milk – is it relevant? How many cups will you make?

Tea for two?

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**Was th****is your cup of tea? Let me know :)**** (Puns, I know, you either love them or hate them, I happen to love them)**


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